


There Are Worse Beginnings

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Animagus Theseus, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: The first time Credence encounters Theseus, what he actually sees is Percival locked in some sort of death struggle with a wolf within the confines of his hospital bed.
Relationships: Credence Barebone/Theseus Scamander, Original Percival Graves & Theseus Scamander
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	There Are Worse Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Clearing out a lot of fic that I've just had on my laptop because it didn't go anywhere. It still doesn't, but it might as well be up here. I miss these guys. Sorry it's apparently just pre-slash but rest assured slash was intended.

The first time Credence encounters Theseus, what he actually sees is Percival locked in some sort of death struggle with a wolf within the confines of his hospital bed.

\---

The world of magic unfolds in front of him more and more every time he so much as blinks. Sometimes he vanishes, and it turns out he's a storm; Newt's case is full of impossible creatures, each with their own fantastic story if you just ask; Queenie can create the softest, richest, sweetest treats in just seconds, with one wave of her wand. It reminds him of some of the saints' stories – not that Credence would ever compare himself to a saint, his hands are twitching at the very thought – the ideas, the senses, feeling as if somebody's pulled back the curtain on the whole world. He’d thought Mr Graves could do wondrous things, and he did. But then it turned out there are so many more people, the fairytale world Credence dreamed about, and as enthralling as Mr Graves' smooth voice and small magics were, what makes him feel blessed (not damned, not anymore) is how normal it all is. The fantasy of magic mixed with the fantasy of something like a home. Somewhere people smile at him, with warm food and clothing that fits him. Maybe he's lost to Satan, to the witches; maybe he's still shivering on a street corner somewhere, mind flooding him with whatever it takes to free him from reality. Either way, he doesn't care, and that's the incredible thing: the _not caring_. Not that that part of him's gone – he wakes up at night, stops in the middle of the day – but he doesn't do it alone.

All this is to say that Credence had been drifting through his life with more of a smile than before, even if he didn't think it was quite real all of the time. There'd even been Percival, Mr Graves' face but concerned and gruff and one of the only people who quite understands.

"It feels like a dream," Credence had said with a soft smile, after Newt had left on another effort to stop the niffler stealing hospital tools. 

When he'd said that before, Queenie had smiled and hugged him, telling him everything was okay now. He never had the heart to explain – and when he'd thought about it later, she must have heard, she just hadn't mentioned it. Which explained the hugs, perhaps, if Credence ever could explain those, the sense of just being enveloped by somebody who cared how you felt. It's lovely – that's not enough, he doesn't have the words for it without getting into blasphemy – but it's overwhelming. When he sees her arms extending, or Tina's (although those are more wary, not afraid as he'd expected but just not as open as her sister), there's still something that flinches in him, pulling him back. Sometimes it's just good to spend time with Newt, who appreciates that just a touch can be enough, more than enough.

All that support – that's what Tina calls it – but it was Percival who'd looked at him and said, "You think you'll wake up back there."

Not a question. Just the truth. So Credence could only nod, and so had Percival, and it was probably from that moment Credence could actually think of him as 'Percival'. With most of the people who pass through (a lot of whom don't see Credence, because they don't want to or the witches can hide him away), they clearly see Percival as someone grand and important. They're right, but that doesn't get rid of the shadows under his eyes, _in_ his eyes, or the way he pulls up the jacket they've given him to mask the gap underneath his right shoulder.

It's all wonderful, and it's sad and maybe that's why Credence finds himself haunting Percival so much. The Goldstein sisters have offered him a home, so has Newt, and yet Credence just keeps drifting back here. He doesn't want to be alone, he's finding. He's been alone so often that now he has an alternative he doesn't want to go back to it. (Especially when this could all shatter to pieces so easily, as easily as the church in the end, no matter how solid it had always felt to him.)

\---

And then one day Credence comes in to the hospital, still with the smell of pastries on his fingers and the taste of sugar in his mouth and a paper bag in one hand because Queenie thinks the nurses don't feed Percival right, and there's a wolf. On Percival's bed. And Percival is holding it off one-handed – not a metaphor, he's sitting up and his hand is pressed against the wolf's head, pushing it backwards even as the wolf presses in closer. There's a growl running through the room, or two if you count the noises Credence realises are coming from behind Percival's gritted teeth.

"Will...you..." Percival inhales sharply, losing ground, and then shoves forwards again. "For _fuck's_ sake, the _fuck_ is wrong with you?"

The gasp isn't intentional in the slightest. Credence has walked the streets, finding the hot steam and the spots where a little food used to be handed out to kids; he knows the kind of people who live in this city, the way that they talk. The language doesn't shock him; the speaker does. Percival's always spoken so formally, or gruffly, careful about every word. Hearing the profanities flow so freely changes the way his whole voice sits, broadening out until he sounds like he does live in this city, as a part of it. It's unfair to say that it shatters some image Credence has, but it does break one of the last links between Percival and Mr Graves which Credence had barely been aware he even had.

He has no idea how Percival hears it with a _wolf_ practically in his lap (it's not just a big dog, Credence tries to think that but there's just something that resonates so strongly, he's never seen a wolf before yet there's no question here). However, there's no question that Percival's head snaps around towards him, brows gathering in a frown which Credence can at least now recognise as more confusion than anger (even if he does still flinch a little). His mouth sets in a line and he shoves at the wolf one last time, shouting, "You change back this fucking instant or I will make sure they don't let you in again!"

The wolf freezes, crouched on the bed. It retreats, away from Percival's hand, to sit at the end with its tail curled around its body, and it cocks its head as if it actually understands him. It lets out a soft whine, extending its head forwards ever so slightly to look up at him, and when Percival just raises an eyebrow, it sniffs and then it abruptly isn't there anymore. There's just a man sitting at the end of Percival's bed, arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

"No bloody need for that," he mutters, scratching at his hair in a way definitely reminiscent of a dog. It's red hair, or the same off-red as Newt’s, Credence notices with his thoughts drifting and distant. (He'd say it's like when he's disappearing into the obscurus, except he's never this detached in the moments before it happens. There's not enough emotion.) "Your fault, anyway."

"How is it my fault," Percival states flatly.

Rather than answer, the man makes a series of complicated gestures in the air, which Credence thinks will result in a spell and is then somehow even more confused when nothing happens. It's a lot of pointing, between the two men mostly but also a chair sat nearby, and then a lot of waving and something which looks like a punch aimed at the gut. "Obviously," the man announces, apparently out of nowhere.

Percival doesn't look confused, more like he's thinking something. He gets a similar face when the witches in matching coats and hats come along to interview him – similar but not the same, because he doesn't look like he's working out whether he could get away with murder.

Then he casually waves a finger towards the door – towards _Credence_ \- and says, "You still have a knack for first impressions, by the way."

Credence hasn't moved, and yet he manages to freeze nonetheless. He wishes once again that he could just run; he thinks of the subway, the sky, and has that moment he always does just before he vanishes when he can feel himself becoming weightless, bleeding away into the air.

"Credence," Percival says, voice muffled by the obscurus, but it isn't that which holds him there. It's the man, the stranger, who's stood up and come closer but not too close, and who's smiling so widely at him that it's like everything just drops down again.

"Hello," he says.

He holds out a hand. Credence blinks at it, and hears himself say, "You were a wolf."

"Yes," the man agrees, "that happens." When Credence doesn't move, he takes a step back instead and tucks that hand away into a pocket, and there's no sense of rejection there. Credence honestly couldn't say why, when he startles around everyone no matter how long he's known them, but there's just no panic in him. This man was a wolf and yet Credence doesn't feel afraid in the slightest.

"'M’Credence," he mumbles, wincing instantly because he knows he'll be punished for that.

"Ah," the man says slowly, as if he's having some sort of realisation, and he glances back at Percival just for a moment. "Good to meet you." If anything, his grin grows even wider. "I'm Theseus. Scamander," he adds, and Credence possibly feels his lips part a little because not only is there no fear on that face, not only is there no wariness, but there's actually a _wink_.

From the bed, Percival says, "No."

The smile loses a lot of its force (Credence can breathe again), but there's still a tilt upwards tucked into the corner of Theseus' mouth as he looks back. "I'm saying hello. It's _polite_." He says the word so strangely, exaggerated, with a long o.

"There's nothing polite about how you do it." Percival leans to the side, looking at Credence. "Just ignore him. He can leave if you want."

"No, I – " Credence's mouth snaps shut again. He hadn't even thought about it; it just slipped out. "It's fine," he says, with just a small stammer, and he fixes his eyes on the ground, counting floor tiles to stop himself so much as sneaking a glance to see if Theseus is smiling again.


End file.
